


the devil went down

by spider_fingers



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Modern AU, PWP, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Subdrop, Teasing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-10-14 14:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spider_fingers/pseuds/spider_fingers
Summary: this used to be a single porny oneshot; now it's going to be a collection of porny oneshots, because sometimes i just gottaCorvoDaud unless otherwise specified :D (i also made minor edits to Bonding, mostly concerning repetition and phrasing)1. Bonding2. Riled





	1. Bonding

 

He's a mess – which is part of what appeals, Corvo thinks, drawing out and pushing back in with a languid thrust of his hips.

How red he gets, from the back of his neck up the strained swell of his shoulders, right to the dip in his lower back. How the hair at his nape is soaked with sweat. Corvo tugs on the rope tying Daud's arms together and can't help but answer how he tightens with another snapping thrust.

“S–Still good?” he asks, short of breath. Daud's grunt is muffled by the mattress where he's pressed his forehead. Not good enough. Corvo grips him by the shoulder, uses that to press in flush against Daud's ass, unmoving. (Void, he's hot and slick all over.) “Going to need... better than that.”

Daud tries wriggling his hips first, then spreading his knees wider on the sheets, but he has nowhere near enough leverage for any of it to satisfy. He rolls his head enough that Corvo can catch a glimpse of his pupils, huge in the low light, and the swelling of his lip where he's been biting it to keep from making too much noise.

“ _Yes,_ ” he almost snarls, “Now get on with i–  _ ah– _ ”

Can't stop himself if his mouth is already open. Corvo flushes in victory and rolls his hips forward again; Daud's already off-balance, his center all wrong and his knees spread too wide and he's flattened to the mattress, cock grinding into the sheets. Corvo makes the next one slow, so Daud can feel the drag as he pulls nearly out, and then every inch as he pushes back in still wet with oil; slow so he can properly enjoy the feel of those sheets.

Daud shudders and arches into it, face starting to press back into the mattress – Corvo leans forward, cups the back of his head to keep him turned. He likes the shine coming into Daud's eyes, how dark they look. Likes the way he can't comfortably close his mouth and keep breathing, too. His tongue flickers wet between his lips.

Corvo wants to bend down and lick him there. Maybe even get himself bit for his trouble.

Instead he leans back and grabs the thick of Daud's thighs, thumbs in the crease under his ass cheeks – the oil gleams there and on the inside of his thighs, makes him hard to hold, makes the tight roil low in Corvo's gut burn even hotter – and pulls Daud up into the next thrust.

A punched-out exhale and his feet kick for purchase but Corvo hauls him back into place, back into another hard snap of his hips, and this time Daud's breath ends on a whine, his neck bending and taut as a bowstring. Corvo doesn't let him get his knees back under him, hooks a hand under one hip and reaches the other underneath him.

He's hard, leaking – Corvo wraps a hand around him, fingers the wet head of his cock and Daud nearly bucks right out of his lap, breath gone immediately heavy and rough. It almost feels like aftershocks as he clenches, convulsive and bent, and even Corvo finds it hard to hold on in the rush – drags the heel of his palm up Daud's spine, flattening him back to the mattress.

“None of that, then,” he murmurs, pressing into the ropes, into Daud's arms underneath. “Gotta make you work for it.”

Daud's breathing is still heavy, deep, but it catches when Corvo sinks in again. He keeps the pace steady now; the muscles in Daud's back work, his breath catching worse until he just stops, mouth open but soundless, face a terrible red –

“Hey,” Corvo says, quiet, reaching out to brush fingers against the top of his spine and Daud rakes the air in, gasps it back out on a low, aching noise. The sounds come stronger with every thrust, not  _ loud _ but louder, rising, cresting and his spine bows and his eyes are wet, wet enough it slides down his face, across his nose and he's coming – and after he sags back to the mattress it only takes a couple more thrusts for Corvo to shudder through his finish, slowing and sinking down, forehead pressed to the sweaty nape of Daud's neck.

They're sticky, and covered in filth. Corvo, heaving for air himself, still takes a second to breathe him in – warmth and sex and quiescence – before drawing back and getting to work.

First, the ropes. Those are thick – hard to knot, hard to untie – and even as he works them open they chafe his hands, but that's what the cloth wrapped around Daud's arms and wrists is for. (The first time they used the rope, it had left red sores and bruises all across Daud's arms from how viciously he fought despite having asked for it. He hadn't cared about the scratches, as long as he retained the use of his arms after.

Corvo'd cared. He'd made sure it didn't happen again.)

Once everything is set aside, the rope looped and put away, the padding stuffed at the back of a dresser drawer, he fetches the cloth and the bowl of water. It's still lukewarm from boiling. Corvo wipes Daud down first – his neck, his broad shoulders, light along his arms (they'll still bruise by morning, but that, Daud likes), then the length of his back and finally: holding a foot in one hand and sweeping the cloth down the leg, down the crack of his ass, and under him, wiping the worst of his come from the sheets. Deals with himself last: quick wipes, efficient. He doesn't need to linger.

Corvo climbs back onto the bed; kneels next to Daud, hand on his shoulder.

“Daud?”

His eyes are dark, unfocused – even at his name they hardly flicker. His breathing stays deep and heavy. The whole of him, becalmed and loose, when usually he seems carved from raw oak. Corvo takes the blanket from where they'd thrown it aside in their haste, lays it out on the dry side of the sheets and rolls Daud onto it. He lets himself be manhandled, head lolling. Corvo wipes a thumb through the wet track on his face. Rests his hand there a moment.

The sharp angle of Daud's jaw fits perfect cradled in his palm, and his body, sprawled and naked like this, draws the light. Something in Daud's eyes seems to watch him, restful. (Trusting. He knows it's wishful thinking.)

Corvo throws the other half of the blanket over him and rolls him back onto his side. Nothing shows aside from black hair and that quiet, tired face, eyes going half-lidded now, but even through the covers Corvo can feel the shivering's started. Corvo takes the time to rub down his back and arms, get the blood moving, get him warm – then he sits, cross-legged, thigh pressed to the curve of Daud's spine through the blanket, and combs a hand through Daud's hair. It's damp, sticking up in clumps where his fingers pass. He keeps at it in strong sweeps until it starts to dry.

He'll wait until Daud comes back from wherever he goes when he gets like this. Corvo can watch him breathe until then, and laugh to himself about the (fond, he thinks) griping it'll get him.

(It's fine.

Daud always comes back.)

 


	2. Riled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> inspired by oldstupidtemplar's [fanart](https://vk.com/old_stupid_templar?z=photo-91184821_457242079%2Falbum-91184821_00%2Frev)

The light in this bar is low, a grimy kind of gold; Corvo thinks, sitting aisle-side in the window booth, that it's the sort of thick atmosphere you can't find anywhere but a dive at midnight. His pint is damp and cold in his hand, sweating circles into the tabletop. Next to him, Daud is face-down on the table, arms folded around his head.

Corvo's other hand sits heavy and warm high on Daud's thigh. His fingers trace another circle over the seam of Daud's jeans; Daud shivers, a bare breath huffing from under his arms. The sliver of ear visible through his hair is beet red.

(He'd spent the first half-hour in this stuffy bar idly handling his own pint, lounging back against the leather of the cushions, his neck an angled curve as he stretched. The sheen of sweat down to his collarbone gleamed. Corvo's mouth had ached, bitter with beer, to bite down just to the left of his adam's apple.  
His hand had, naturally, wandered up the length of Daud's leg.

The hitch in Daud's eyebrow was no deterrent; Corvo had scratched at the thick seam and watched, eyes deceivingly half-lidded, as the sharp of his cheekbones darkened, until Daud turned to the window and gulped down his pint by way of distraction.)

Daud's pint sits half-finished. Under the table, Corvo's pinky clicks up the teeth of his zipper, and tension washes through him in a shuddering wave.

The waiter making his way down the aisle stops when Corvo motions for another drink, but even as he nods at the order he eyes Daud, hunched over like he's about to vomit—or already falling asleep.

“I think your friend's had enough,” he says, picking up Corvo's empty pint. He must be new—the other waiters would have noticed Daud is still on his first drink—but maybe he just takes him for a lightweight.

Corvo leans back against the seat and presses his fingers, slow, up the bulge in Daud's pants, and he and the waiter both turn at the hitch in Daud's shoulders, the pained grunt muffled by the layers of his jacket.

“Yeah,” Corvo says, “He probably has. We'll be leaving soon.”

As soon as the waiter's gone, Daud's voice rises, a rasping grate: “I'm going to kill you.”

Corvo leans in, just slowly enough that he might look like a friend trying to wake a drunk buddy up, and murmurs in his ear, “There are so many better things you could do to me, though.”

Daud twitches, unfolding, and angles himself away; it's only a little more awkward to tease him like this, but when the waiter comes back it's going to be immediately obvious what Corvo's been up to. His hand slides away.

A minute later he's inched close enough to slip into the gap between Daud's pants and the black of his boxers. Daud's hand snaps around his wrist, and he turns, his face uncommonly focused under the telling red.

“We're leaving,” he says. “Right now.”

He doesn't give Corvo the time to pay their tab before he's striding through the door, out into the dark; Corvo throws what bills he has on the counter and runs after him. By the time Corvo reaches the street, he is only a few feet down the sidewalk, going fast—which means he's not angry, or he would have disappeared. Corvo catches up. Throwing an arm around Daud's shoulders only gets him a huff of breath and a marginally quicker pace.

Five minutes later he's grabbing a handful of Daud's ass and finds himself shoved into the nearest dark alley, no warning, head bouncing off the bricks when he's thrown against a wall—he winces, more from surprise than pain—Daud presses into him.

“I can't believe you,” he pants, hardly an inch from Corvo's mouth, and as he kisses him sloppy and hot his hands are frantic, undoing their belts, struggling for a grip on his own zipper.

Corvo sucks in breath when Daud breaks away, throat clicking with a swallow—“Anyone could come by,” he says, the end of the valley is open, they're hardly hidden behind the building's communal trashcan, “They'll see—” and Daud shuts him up with his lips and tongue, biting at the corner of his mouth.

“I really couldn't care less,” he says, finally undoing Corvo's zipper.

Pants and underwear shoved out of the way, his grip is almost painful when he takes them in hand, but it's all Corvo can do to clutch at the meat of his arms and gasp, the steam of Daud's breaths puffing against his throat. Those sounds, he's making— making such sounds, all air until they turn to keening, their pitch rising, little desperate whimpers right in Corvo's ear that have him struggling to thrust into Daud's strokes—

It takes five for Daud to come, a final breath punched out of him, plastered against Corvo's front and his lips, soft and damp, brushing Corvo's neck.

Corvo is about to make some quip about being pent up when Daud, slumped in the supporting circle of his arms, slides down to his knees in the dirt of the alley. Words vanish from his head.

“Oh shit,” he says instead, strained, as Daud licks at the head of his cock.

It's winter and the air is cold on the bare tops of his thighs but he doesn't care, Daud's warm hands are clenched in his pants just below where they were shoved down earlier, Daud's mouth is on him all hot and wet, his tongue, pressing just where he needs, and his fingers are tangled in Daud's hair, they follow the bobbing of his head—

“Fuck—” He sounds strung out, voice wrecked like he's the one with a cock down his throat, “Daud, I'm gonna, I'm—”

Daud draws away with a noise that leaves Corvo shaking, a tremble in him down to his heels, and says, “Just come in my mouth,” before pushing him one-armed back against the wall and leaning in again.

Corvo feels himself speak and has no idea what he says—he's too blanked-out on bliss, fingers locked in Daud's hair as he pushes in and Daud lets him, Daud lets him—

Daud pulls his hands away and stands to spit somewhere a foot away. Corvo grimaces, melting back into the bricks.

“You got come all over my shirt,” he says, pulling out the hem to show the spatter of off-white stains.

Daud shrugs, buckling his belt and pulling Corvo's pants up so he can do the same. “It's all you deserve.”

Corvo's a little hazy, his eyes almost closed with the focus-memory of heat chasing away the cold of the city, but his ideas are clear when he says, “I'm going to fuck you so hard when we get home.”

Daud laughs. They start walking. “When we get home you're going to drop, and I'm going to sleep off this hangover.”

“What hangover?” Corvo's elbow finds Daud's ribs, unerring. “You barely had a pint.”

The returning salvo almost folds him in two.

“You're enough of a hangover on your own.”

They bicker all the way home; and in the morning, Corvo has curled like a parenthesis around the warm curve of Daud's back.

 


End file.
